No, that sucks for YOU. Not for me.

Walking into my room after a mind-disintegrating midterm should be comfort. Instead, Rose was right there, waiting…

"I have some bad news," she says in a way that makes me feel like it will only be bad news for me. (You know what I’m talking about-totally relaxed, patronizing tone of voice).

"oh?" I wish there was a font for disdain.

"I totally forgot to do this midterm paper so I’ll be up until about 1 or 2 this morning."

At this point, I believe I threw my backpack onto my chair so hard, the chair kept spinning for a while afterwards. “You’re kidding. I have another midterm tomorrow morning at 8.”

"Yea I gotta use my desktop. The keyboard on my laptop is too small."

I walked out and didn’t say anything.

Completely uncalled for. Why do I have to suffer if she FORGOT to do a paper?? And she’s been on the PHONE for the past 20 minutes with her dumbass boyfriend.

If I have to sleep on the couch, I will NOT be pleased. She might find spiders in her bed. Or poison. I don’t even know.


Excess napkins
Dirty easy mac bowl
Open plastic Easy mac wrappers (2)
Spilled powdered cheese
Carton of cigarettes
Jar of pickled jalapenos. 


  • Beanie
  • Excess napkins
  • Dirty easy mac bowl
  • Open plastic Easy mac wrappers (2)
  • Spilled powdered cheese
  • Carton of cigarettes
  • Jar of pickled jalapenos.



I’ll miss you, number four.

It had been four days.

Four days since I had seen Rose.

Four glorious days where I didn’t see her dead eyes, her off-white robe (it wasn’t always off-white), her nappy hair, her ripped Rolling Stones pajama bottoms hanging halfway off her ass.

Four incredible days where I could admire my two-hour cleaning job on our living room, free of dirty mac and cheese bowls, pickled jalapeno stems, used tissues, dirty clothes, and your school work.

Four fanfuckingtastic days where I didn’t hear you or your obnoxious sounds you bring; your deafening TV volume, shrill talking yelling voice, absurdly over-the-top laugh, phone sex with your boyfriend, or phone-while-peeing habits.

Four days. Four days, up until about an hour ago.

After a long day of class, followed by a tiring stay in the library, I come back to the dorm, ready to relieve my stress until the next day… except I come home to see Rose spread like a nice off-white, unshowered blob of a potato on the couch, watching TV at a stupid volume in our completely trashed living room (trashing my hard work along with it), complete with what? You guessed it: half eaten bowl of easy mac, a jar of pickled jalapenos, with the stems on the table.

Not to mention the smell a strange mix between stale easy mac, warm pickled jalapeno juice, rotting garbage, and wet rabbit fur.

Now, it takes a lot to disgust me. Dead animals to pulsing maggots to raw sewage I’ve seen it all. And let me just tell you: seeing a human living like the way she is… I am disgusted.

If she were a Shaman, this would be her spirit animal.


If you don’t have anything nice to say…

stay quiet and bottle your feelings until you explode in a fiery burst of fury. and fire.

Rose isn’t back yet. So nice. So quiet.

I’ve solved the mystery as to why my bath towel smells like cigarette smoke. We have two towels on the rack-one belongs to me, the other to Rose. On Tuesday, she asked if the blue one was mine (which it is). I said yes and she said that she hadn’t been sure. “Good thing it’s yours-I haven’t washed it!”

It has been almost two quarters. You have got to be joking me. Process of elimination, dumbass. I’m disgusted.

On Friday, I had my first big test in my hardest class. Instead of leaving on Thursday night to go home as she normally does, Rose decided to stay the night. And leave at 5 in the morning. NOT FAIR.

I didn’t sleep that night because of her alarm going off multiple times, her hitting the snooze button at least 3 times with an inappropriate exclamation each time, and her sleep-talking. I’m sorry, that’s not an apt description. It’s more like sleep-yelling. And I can tell she’s a total bitch in her dreams too.



My mom says we have ties to the mafia…

I’m pretty sure Rose has absolutely no idea of how much of a menace she really is.

She didn’t come back until Wednesday this week and I can’t even begin to describe the pleasant wonderland of uninterrupted sleep and eardrums that are not on the verge of exploding with which I was left before her return.

When she came back, it was just one vexation after another. I’ve boiled it down to the highlights that made every single cell in my body halt and say, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING??”

  • Rose asked if we had both Lincoln and Washington’s birthdays off. In fact we do, I replied, it’s called President’s Day. And no, you do not get the entire week off because it’s in celebration of more than one president so stop crossing it off your calendar as you thank the “founders of our country for an extra week of no school”
  • Rose skyped with her boyfriend. The volume of her speakers? Somewhere between level 9 and 10. The volume of her voice? Somewhere in the range of 100-150 decibels. I did homework in the hallway with my headphones on full-blast. I blame whatever hearing loss I experience in my late fifties on my roommate.
  • We cleaned the living room. She’s already taken it over. She was too lazy to walk the 200 yards to a dining hall today so she ordered pizza and chicken wings. Which she finished by herself…The intoxicating smell remains.
  • Rose rolls over if I make even the slightest noise in the morning as if to alert me that she’s “trying to sleep.” (I’ve begun emulating this technique but substituting the roll-over move for a legitimate growl.) I guess she took her sleeping pills last night which make her super groggy. When she rolled over this morning, she says “I waaaant CHEESE….so, so hungry…” You can’t make this stuff up.
  • She’s currently watching Brokeback Mountain full-blast in the living room. How unnecessary is that?
  • She teases me all the time. Fine with me because I just ate all the sausages off her left-over pizza. Bitch.

Mom says we have ties to the mafia…that could be a reasonable option.


Smells like teen spirit.


My room smells like weed. And it’s not just a whiff. It’s a full-on, Colombian cologne, I-feel-like-I-smoked-something-too aroma of marijuana. Fan-fucking-tastic.

In the past, I pitied you, Rose, for your chronic cough that reminds me so very much of an old cat hacking up a lung. I’m not so sympathetic now. Please shut up. And cover your mouth. Please.

Also, I’m hoping to teach my darling roommate how to use doors properly. She cannot leave a room without slamming a door. I’m not even sure she does this on purpose. This little idiosyncrasy is not convenient for me (because it is all about me, isn’t it?). Especially when I have to go to bed early and Rose is still in the living room, munching on the snacks she no doubt stole from some kid at recess, leaving the wrappers behind, and watching TV.

As I write this, she is on the phone discussing with a friend how she will best put to use her last pill. Of what, I’m not sure I want to know.

If dis bitch wakes me up tomorrow on my day off, shit will go down.


And one for the road.

She left her bra in the shower. Then proceeded to inform me that the only has one.

boy do I feel awkward.


There’s a new one in town.

Hi kids. This is MSG, Belle’s (and subsequently Rose’s) suitemate.

I think the last time I was committed to a blog was in 8th grade; it was an outlet for my hormonally driven emo angst about things that really didn’t apply to my life. As I finished high school, I looked back on my sad, sorrowful words on my not-really-that-sad-or-sorrowful life and felt unadulterated embarrassment. From then on, blogs are now, to me, just horrible reminders of how cool I thought I used to be, and how utterly ridiculous I actually was. I ended one of my blogs with “H3lla to th3 maxz0rs like woah.” I mean… what the fuck does that even mean??

Well, shit. Here I am blogging again. Why?? Why the hell am I blogging again? I’ll tell you why.

You see, I moved to college a little over 4 months ago. I love college; I have an awesome room, my classes are great, I get along with my roommate, as well as my suitemate  note: not plural. Fortunately I got paired with someone not as batshitfuckingcrazy inconsiderate as Rose; unfortunately, I still have to live with her. (My infinite condolences goes out to Belle, who actually shares a room with her. I am so, so sorry.) While I don’t come into contact with her as much as Belle does, I still do. In the House of Crazy, we are all victims of her [hate] crimes.

I try to give people chances, I’m a nice person (that may or may not have been a lie,) and I am really forgiving. However, her behavior is just unacceptable. But, in this case, my forgiveness will extend to keeping my mouth shut and exploding in a blog later on  I’ve affectionately deemed this as my passive-aggressive aggression.

So, if here I am writing this blog about my batshitfuckingcrazy highly inconsiderate suitemate, Rose, why don’t I start (or I guess end, at this point) with some offenses I’ve personally been victim to? Well, i’m glad I asked.

Currently, right now, as I type (redundancy for emphasis), Rose is watching the first episode of the 9th season of American idol. As if that wasn’t a horrible form of the unnatural itself, I can clearly hear the god fucking awful renditions of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” coming from the living room. This is means the sound is penetrating two walls of my suite. Note, this is on my TV I brought from home. I’m okay with people watching it, but at that volume, I feel like there’s some sort of aspect of property abuse — as in, she might blow out the speakers.

Yet a problem occurs if Rose watches the TV in her room: the obnoxious sound only penetrates one wall. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve had to ask her to turn down her TV because it either a) woke me up from a nap, b) prevented me from taking a nap, or c) made me want to sit in a corner and tear gas station receipts into tiny, tiny little pieces… I’m not sure how much money i’d have. It’s over 50 cents, though.

Oh. And I’ve seen her naked about 5 times now, counting today. That’s 5 more times than I ever really wanted. I’m unsure as to why she feels the necessity to run around our suite naked before she hops in the shower, but boy do I wish she didn’t. It pains me to see her shitty, shitty tramp stamp… and then remember that this woman gave birth to a child. By pains, I mean disturbs me to no end.

So there, there is my first legitimate blog entry on a legitimate blog site since 8th grade. Just when I thought nothing could occur in my life that would warrant me to blog again, I move in with Rose.

Here’s to you, Rose. Turn the fucking TV down.


pee ess/ I’m almost certain she has no idea what MSG is.

Back. Like a heart attack.

The weekend was nice. But now it’s over.

Rose is back.

She’s currently passed out with her boyfriend in my room. Not like I need to do homework in there or anything.

Yesterday, I found a pair of underwear under my bed. It’s not mine. And it’s not clean. I was almost sick. Did she have sex in my bed?? Or did she just hurl her undergarments all over the room?? Either way, so unacceptable.

She left tea in a mug and it started to mold. Part of me wanted to throw it out and clean it for her. Part of me wanted to leave it so she’d be disgusted at how ridiculous she is. Part of me wanted to test it for cultures.

Somebody needs to draw the line. Guess who that somebody is going to have to be?


You have a beard, Rose. Oh wait.

Bad news is when I came home from the gym around 11 AM and started undressing to get in the shower, I discovered that not only was there someone sleeping in my room (Rose had gotten a hotel room last night after a concert, so it took me a few seconds to process), but that this someone was Rose’s boyfriend.

Awkward doesn’t even BEGIN to cover it.

When he hears me come in, he rolls over and apologizes for being so hungover. I forgive you..?

I’m forced to change in the living room and as I’m pulling on my pants, both Rose’s boyfriend and Rose both enter the room. She tries to joke about we must’ve just hooked up.

To quote Tila Tequila, “I ain’t tryna fuck ya man.” Dude, he’s like 3 inches shorter than me. And the greasy hair and half-shaven beard just aren’t doing it for me.

Feel free to bribe me so I’ll like you, Rose.